I rongo ngā purapura ora i te kaikiri, te tūkino ā-ahurea me te whakapapa i ngā whare Kāwanatanga nui
Survivors experienced racial and cultural abuse and neglect in large-scale institutions

Ngā wheako a te Māori
Māori experiences

802. Māori survivors who were placed in large-scale disability and psychiatric settings suffered individual, as well as systemic racial and cultural abuse and neglect. This abuse and neglect included physical, spiritual and emotional disconnection from whakapapa, whānau, hapū, iwi, taha Māori, and connection to whenua, in the context of a predominating Eurocentric approach to health. Historically, the care and treatment received in these settings reflected a biomedical model of care that denied a more holistic understanding of health, healing, and systems of care, including kaupapa Māori models of care.

803. Māori survivors of institutional disability care describe the trauma of living in Pākehā institutions that were dismissive of their identities, “alien to their life experiences, and unresponsive to their cultural and spiritual needs”.[1173]

804. Many were not allowed to speak te reo Māori, and Māori names were Anglicised for staff convenience.[1174] In a 2004 Ministry of Health research report, three whānau members of adults with a learning disability who were institutionalised, expressed continued frustration that their whānau member was unable to live by their cultural values, such as observing karakia before kai or eating particular foods.[1175]

805. Denial of cultural connection and identity erodes self-identity, and affects every part of a person’s wellbeing, as well as the collective wellbeing of their whānau, hapū, and iwi.

806. Intersectional experiences of abuse and neglect have also been experienced in these settings by tāngata whaikaha Māori (Māori with disabilities who are determined to do well) and tāngata whaiora (Māori who is the subject of care, assessment and treatment processes in mental health), as well as their whānau, hapū, and iwi. Tāngata whaikaha and tāngata whaiora experienced racist and ableist forms of abuse and neglect – their removal into care was influenced by segregationist policies and societal racism which separated them from their whānau and culture; this disconnection was further exacerbated once in care, where they experienced racism and ableism.

807. In a collective statement, a group of Whānau Hauā (an ‘umbrella’ term for Māori with disabilities and their collective) from Tāmaki Makaurau said the worst thing to happen to them in Pākehā disability institutions was that their culture was taken from them: “We were separated from our culture and forced to view ourselves in a light inconsistent with te ao Māori.”[1176] They further explained that institutionalisation is a “modern colonisation”, as it removes them from their culture, whānau, hapū and iwi, and denies them the decision-making power over their lives.[1177] The group spoke about how this relates to the Tohunga Suppression Act 1907 and how it has prevented Māori from practicing their own traditional methods of healing and supporting Whānau Hauā. This, alongside other colonial institutions and instruments, have denied whānau access to mātauranga and practices that would have enabled them to care for their own Whānau Hauā.[1178]

808. The Whānau Hauā group said they experienced multiple forms of abuse while in institutional disability, “often because [they] were Māori”.[1179] One member stated: “We got hit for speaking Māori, slapped across the face, made to go without meals. Māori kids were the only ones who got treated this way.”[1180]

809. Māori survivors who were in psychiatric institutions also suffered cultural neglect.[1181] New Zealand Māori survivor Joshy Fitzgerald (Te Arawa) wished he had more of an opportunity to learn te reo but explained that “Māori culture never got brought up at Tokanui [Psychiatric Hospital]”.[1182] The denial of te reo was not simply a denial of language or a form of educational neglect – Joshy shared that it also denied him a “feeling of belonging”, and that because he was denied te reo, he felt as if he did not belong anywhere.[1183]

810. Sheree Briggs, a former staff member at Māngere Hospital, described a ‘significant neglect’ of culture, saying: “There were no cultural events, no support of residents’ cultural identity and no recognition of culture at all.”[1184]

811. Māori survivors and their whānau also experienced racism in disability and mental health settings.[1185]

812. Māori survivor Sidney Neilson (Ngāti Porou, Ngāpuhi) told the Inquiry about the regular racism he experienced from patients and staff at Porirua Hospital. He shared: “Racism was always present in my experiences as a patient, and this was often expressed as anger directed at me by the Pākehā staff. They would stand over me or treat me like I was no good.”[1186] He also said that Māori and Pākehā patients were “like enemies, fighting in the kitchen”,[1187] and that Pākehā nurses were “rude, arrogant and racist towards us”.[1188]

813. Sidney’s sister, Cherene Neilson-Hornblow, also spoke to the Inquiry. She explained how Sidney had to ‘normalise’ himself to Pākehā practices in psychiatric care settings, including treatment protocols such as medication, as well as the institutional environment itself which did not represent or align with his cultural identity and therefore cultural values and needs.[1189]

814. The only good memories Sidney has of Porirua Hospital are when his dad would gather everyone together and put on boil-ups and rēwena bread “to manaakitanga all the Māori clients at the hospital”.[1190] These gatherings allowed people to practice whakawhanaungatanga and to “talk about what issues and concerns they had with the system, staff, place and environment”.[1191]

815. Some Māori survivors have spoken about how behaviours associated with Māori spirituality, specifically matakite, were misunderstood and pathologised.[1192] Medical professionals and staff would interpret these behaviours as symptoms of mental distress or a mental health condition that required treatment, including medication.[1193]

816. Sidney’s sister, Cherene, also explained that staff did nothing to support their whānau introducing Māori healing practices, such as tohunga,[1194] within the institutional setting:

“When my parents tried to introduce tohunga, they were just seen as, ‘oh, those Māori things over there’, or if they even tried to get people in that could help my brother in the hospital, it was just invalidated. Yeah, we received quite a lot of systemic racism for historical, cultural, and racial inequities.”[1195]

817. These experiences highlight the layers of racism, discrimination and oppression that occurred in these institutional settings – this harm rippled out to whānau. This tūkino – abuse, harm and trauma – reflected transgressions against many aspects of tikanga and kaupapa Māori, as well as disability values such as respecting inherent human value, diversity and the right to decision-making. This is made even more evident when such examples are compared with experiences survivors had of more inclusive and culturally validating practices.

Ngā wheako a ngā uri Pasifika
Pacific experiences

818. For Pacific survivors who experienced care in large-scale psychopaedic or psychiatric institutions, cultural identity or heritage was rarely recognised. A key point of difference for Pacific Peoples in disability and mental health care settings was the dominance of a Pālagi bio-medical model. In some instances, this not only denied survivors access to their cultures, families, and communities, but also to Pacific methods of healing and holistic understandings of wellbeing. Dr Diana Sarfati, Ministry of Health Chief Executive and Director-General of Health, acknowledged in her brief of evidence for the Inquiry’s State Institutional Response Hearing that:

“Health and disability settings between 1950 and 1999 did not consistently and meaningfully ensure the cultural needs of all Pacific people were met, including providing culturally appropriate health care options, causing disconnection from their culture, identity, language and communities.”[1196]

819. The Inquiry heard that in the 1990s, in-patient mental health units, did not offer culturally appropriate care options that reflected Pacific cultural practices and values.

820. Samoan survivor Rachael Umaga described how drug therapy was the only care treatment option available to her from 1992 to 2013.[1197] In 2003, she sought an alternative form of treatment outside of the psychiatric unit, the Samoan fofo, but she had to get approval from her psychiatrist to do so. After undertaking fofo for seven days, Rachael experienced positive results.[1198] She remained well and was discharged without further treatment or medication.

821. The importance of cultural therapeutic activities for Pacific Peoples with mental health needs was highlighted in the Government Inquiry into Mental Health and Addiction. The report focused on Pacific Peoples defined ideal practice in the mental health sector as including access to “therapeutic activities sourced to Pacific worldviews and wisdom which are often beyond the scope of standard clinical practice and beyond mainstream appreciation of what is healing.”[1199]

822. Rachael Umaga also recalled the lack of Pacific mental health workers particularly during the 1990s. She described how one psychiatric unit “was full of foreign nurses and foreign doctors” who she felt did not “have any idea of New Zealand culture let alone ... Samoan culture”.[1200]

823. Survivors in these large-scale institutional settings experienced often-forced separation from family and aiga. For Pacific survivors in disability and mental health settings, this deliberate separation often meant access to kainga (family) was denied, causing them deep emotional harm. While at Wilson Home in 1975, for example, Samoan Gypsy survivor Antony Dalton-Wilson was repeatedly denied access to his mother:

“Even though I liked being at the Wilson home in the daytime, I wanted to go home to see my mum at nighttime, but the nurses would not let me. It would upset me. Every day I would ask when I could go home but the nurses would not answer. That would make me agitated and very angry.”[1201]

824. Survivor Lusi Faiva shared her similar experience, saying: “While I was in the Kimberley Centre, my mum never visited me. The first time she came was when she came to take me home. I didn’t know who she was and I felt nervous.”[1202]

825. Inaccurate recording of names and ethnicities in care represented a way staff further neglected or denied individuals’ identities. Samoan survivor Rachael Umaga had several admissions to Hutt Hospital in Te Awa Kairangi ki Tai Lower Hutt from the late 1990s, and the acute mental health in-patient unit there. She explained that on her medical notes she saw multiple incorrect ethnicities entered as well as misspelling of her name, despite telling the staff this information several times:

“The staff just assumed my Pacific Island ethnicity and they had that typical perception that all Islanders looked the same. They didn't ask me to clarify or confirm my ethnicity - they just wrote it down.”[1203]

Ngā wheako a te hunga Turi
Deaf experiences

826. Sheree Briggs, a staff member at Māngere Hospital, described intersectional challenges experienced by Deaf individuals with learning disability:

“In terms of Deaf culture, there were a few Deaf residents at both Māngere [Hospital] and St John’s [Home for Boys’ (and Girls’) in Ōtautahi Christchurch]. Some of them could sign fluently, but not all of them, so they would come up with their own unique signs to communicate. There were some staff who could sign with these residents and were able to teach them to sign. However, it was particularly challenging for Deaf residents to learn Sign Language if they had a significant intellectual disability.”[1204]

Te tūkinotanga ā-hinengaro i ngā whare Kāwanatanga nui
Psychological abuse in large-scale institutions

I rongo ngā purapura ora i te whakatumatuma me te tūkino ā-waha
Survivors experienced bullying and verbal abuse

827. Survivors and residents experienced bullying in different forms that were extremely hurtful and dehumanising. Many survivors reported physical and verbal bullying in disability and mental health institutional settings that targeted people based on their disability, condition, impairment, ethnicity, gender identity and / or sexual orientation. As such, bullying was often a form of disregard for, or disparagement of, diverse identities of those in care.

828. At the Templeton Centre near Ōtautahi Christchurch it was common for residents to be sworn at and called names such as ‘egghead’,[1205] ‘idiot’[1206] and ‘little shit’.[1207] Survivor Antony Dalton-Wilson said that staff at Māngere Hospital called him ‘handicapped’, despite him asking them not to as “it undermines me”.[1208]

829. Some survivors were mocked or laughed at for their powerlessness in the face of bullying. Helen Porter, a former psychopaedic nurse at the Templeton and Seaview Hospital, explained how the male staff at Seaview would tease a wheelchair user:

“He was a biter, and if he ever bit any of the staff or tried to lash out, they would pick him up and leave him on the floor unable to move. I would get so angry and tell them to put him back in his wheelchair immediately. They would claim their actions were behavior management, but it had nothing to do with that. It was a violation of his basic human dignity. It was all about power and control.”[1209]

Te noho wehe i te whānau me ngā hoa
Separation from family, whānau and friends

830. Separation from whānau, family, friends and support networks could itself be classed as a form of abuse. The Inquiry acknowledges the acute pain created by this separation as being central to many survivors’ stories.

831. In large-scale institutions, this separation was at times encouraged or enforced by staff. At the Kimberley Centre near Taitoko Levin, parents were told not to visit their child for months.[1210] Parents were told that their child “needed to settle into the culture of the institution and to reach an understanding that [their] family [wasn’t] coming to take [them] home”.[1211]

832. Some whānau and friends of survivors who were in psychiatric care settings were told by staff they were not allowed to visit or were prevented from seeing their loved ones when they did visit.[1212] Some survivors were later told by family and whānau that staff discouraged them from making contact – they were told an individual was too ‘unwell’ or needed space to ‘recover’, although at the time, this was never communicated to the individual themselves. Survivors assumed their family did not try to reach out to, or even care about them, which made them feel like they were not part of a family.

833. Survivors felt that staff’s power to make decisions around contact and visits was dehumanising and completely neglected their emotional needs. Samoan survivor Rachel Umaga described experiencing this when she was in a psychiatric ward attached to a hospital:

“I was stuck in the room, restricted from doing anything else on the ward. They let me out to have my meal, but they restricted the number of visitors I could see. It was a dehumanising experience and a power play by the nurses and doctors in that they made all the decisions for me.”[1213]

834. Catherine Hickey, whose brother Paul was in Porirua Hospital, says their family’s access to visits was restricted while Paul was in care and the hospital never provided reasons for this. In addition, letters Paul wrote to his family were confiscated and calls were monitored – Paul would ask for help every time he contacted his family.[1214]

835. The isolated nature of many large-scale institutions themselves further discouraged relationships and connections being maintained with the ‘outside’ world. Sometimes families could not visIt because institutions were located too far away from where they lived.[1215]

Te taitōkai i ngā whare nui o te Kāwanatanga
Sexual abuse in large-scale institutions

836. There was widespread sexual abuse across mental health and disability care settings.

837. Survivors who were in psychiatric settings told the Inquiry they were sexually abused by staff members and other patients. Survivors described being sexually abused while physically or chemically restrained, when receiving treatment, and when heavily medicated.[1216] NZ European survivor Steven Storer told the Inquiry that a staff member at Oakley Hospital sexually abused him while he was in a dazed state.[1217] Sexual abuse for survivors in these settings included indecent exposure, forced oral sex, and being repeatedly raped.[1218]

838. Survivor Danny Akula was 15 years old when he was admitted to Porirua Hospital in March 1968. Three days after he was admitted, he was made to perform oral sex on two male nurses.[1219] He told the Inquiry that this sexual abuse happened at night in the dormitory where 20 to 30 other men were.[1220] He described the extent of the sexual abuse at Porirua:

“The two nurses would pick me up and take me to another room where I was raped. I was fully aware that there were many sexual assaults happening at night, both by staff and patients. I remember that if I thought I heard a door open or shut, I would automatically move into a fetal position, to protect myself.”[1221]

839. Survivor Ms ON, who spent time in Claybury House at Kingseat Hospital in 1990, described group therapy as being “like a psychiatric torture chamber”.[1222] She explained that as a sexual abuse victim, a blindfolded touching activity was “one of the most frightening experiences of my life”.[1223]

“One by one, we were blindfolded and led to the centre of the room where other blindfolded patients were waiting. The instructions were to ‘get to know one another by touch’. I stood rigidly on the spot as I was touched all over: my hair, my face, my neck, my shoulders, my breasts, my stomach and my bottom. I wanted to scream but no sounds came out.”[1224]

840. Survivors were also sexually abused while in in-patient mental health settings. Fijian survivor Ms LS was sexually assaulted by another patient after being admitted to the mental health unit at Whangārei Hospital. Though she reported the abuse to a nurse, nothing was done to ensure her safety. Instead, as she explained, “I was left locked in with the perpetrator for two weeks in the secure unit... We had to eat in the same area, share the same recreation space ... I found being locked up with the perpetrator to be very punishing. It was stressful and humiliating”.[1225]

841. This is an example where one type of abuse, in this case sexual abuse, could be compounded by other types of abuse and neglect - the institution’s inappropriate response to this survivor’s disclosure of abuse represented forms of emotional neglect and psychological abuse. Ms LS experienced further incidents of sexual assault during later stays at Whangārei Hospital.[1226]

842. The Inquiry was told that survivors with learning disabilities were sexually abused in psychopaedic settings, and that children as young as 9 years old were sexually abused by staff members at the Kimberley Centre near Taitoko Levin. [1227] NZ European survivor Tony Ryder told the Inquiry that he was raped at the Templeton Centre near Ōtautahi Christchurch in the late 1970s after reporting physical abuse to the medical superintendent.[1228]

843. The Inquiry has heard that abuse at the Kimberley Centre included organised sexual abuse facilitated by staff members. NZ European survivor Mr EI described the institution as “a place for sexual abuse”.[1229] Mr EI explained how he heard conversations about cost and money and believed that the people paying were not from the Kimberley Centre. He said there was a core group of young boys and girls who would then be taken to a room who “were the main ones. The adults would pick and choose from us. From conversations I overheard in the hallway, they would say what they wanted, and the nurses would go off and find us.”[1230] Mr EI said that all of the children were 17 years old or younger and disabled:[1231]

“From what I could tell, none of the girls that I saw being abused could speak or communicate properly. I do not know what their disability was. I just remember that they were disabled and they could not talk. This is probably how a lot of this happened, is that they victimised kids that could not speak, could not fight back, could not express themselves, and they got away with it. When it came to me, the only thing I could fight back with was running away.”[1232]

844. Former staff member Caroline Arrell shared that in the early 1970s, a senior teacher at the Education Department School at Tokanui Psychiatric Hospital (who was later convicted of sexual assault and abuse of two young men at another school) took young disabled boys “who could not move or control any part of their bodies” to his house on the weekends.[1233]

845. As a result of Caroline Arrell raising concerns for these young men, it was arranged for them to be taken for invasive forensic sexual assault examination at Waikato Hospital on a Monday morning after a weekend at the teacher’s house.[1234] While no physical evidence was found, at the Inquiry’s State Institutional Response Hearing in 2022, the NZ Police Commissioner said: “It certainly wouldn’t meet the standards of policing now and I would be surprised if it would have been assessed as a reasonable tactic then. Putting potential victims in harm’s way to secure evidence just is not something that makes sense.”[1235]

846. While the senior teacher was no longer allowed to take the young men home on the weekends, he continued to spend time with them at the school.[1236] Caroline Arrell described the way the teacher would clean the young men’s penises and that he “made it clear to his teacher aides that he was the only person to deal with their incontinence issues”.[1237] Caroline said: “No one recognised or responded to the extremely suspicious behaviour from this disgusting monster.”[1238]

Te tūkinotanga ā-tinana i ngā whare Kāwanatanga nui
Physical abuse in large-scale institutions

847. Physical abuse was pervasive within large-scale psychopaedic and psychiatric settings. The abuse was often violent and created a climate of fear for many survivors. Physical abuse was perpetrated by staff, by peers and by others, with some staff allowing or facilitating this abuse.

848. The Confidential Forum, established in 2004, allowed former in-patients to discuss their experiences of Psychiatric Hospitals. Survivors the Inquiry heard from echoed what former psychiatric patients had told the Confidential Forum, who described “an atmosphere that was violent, and of witnessing or experiencing physical violence from other patients or staff”.[1239]

849. The Inquiry agrees with Mark Benjamin, former chief executive of Standards and Monitoring Services New Zealand, when he noted that in disability and mental health settings pre-1990s – in what he terms “the oppressive era” – there was overt physical violence occurring.[1240]

I whakamahi ngā kaimahi i te tūkinotanga ā-tinana hei whakawhiu
Staff used physical abuse as punishment

850. Survivors shared that staff beat, kicked, grabbed and belted them, pulled their hair, hit with wet towels, hosed with water and dragged them along the ground.[1241] In some cases, disabled people were deliberately targeted for physical abuse. As Māori, Pākehā survivor Toni Jarvis (Ngāi Tahu, Ngāti Kahungunu) put it: "Violence was more severe when patients were more disabled or impaired.”[1242]

851. Some institutions gained a reputation for specific types of abuse. Survivor Danny Akula told the Inquiry about receiving “concrete pills” at Porirua Hospital. This was a practice whereby two to four staff would pick up patients by their legs and arms and drop them onto concrete to make them ‘harden up’.[1243]

852. Physical abuse was also frequently used by staff as punishment and to reinforce power and control. Survivors were punished for failures to follow orders, minor wrongdoings or simply doing something that annoyed staff. Some of the things survivors were punished for included failing to write down notes from a board,[1244] breaking toys,[1245] declining food and medication,[1246] and expressing pain or trauma.[1247]

853. Survivor Mr EI, who spent time at Kimberley Centre near Taitoko Levin, as a child, said “if the kids misbehaved staff would hit them on the head with a set of keys or [smack them] across the backside”.[1248] Such instances of punishment occurred with disregard for individual capability at tasks such as schoolwork, demonstrating a failure to accommodate diverse needs, and a denial of the right that individuals have to make their own decisions about issues such as eating, as a way to reinforce power and control.

854. Punishment was not only often unnecessary, but excessive. Alison Pascoe, a survivor who spent most of her life in psychiatric institutions, told the Inquiry about the harsh and abusive punishments she endured at Kingseat Hospital. Alison described staff using “broken pieces of a chamber pot to cut [her] legs open as punishment” and having her mouth scrubbed with a dirty toilet brush covered in faeces and disinfectant as punishment for talking back to staff.[1249] She saw staff beating elderly patients with heavy-duty service keys for wetting the bed.[1250]

855. Physical restraints could include being touched or manhandled, being placed in a straitjacket, mechanical restraints such as belts or cuffs, and forms of therapeutic holds. Another example of physical restraints being used in a psychopaedic institution was experienced by survivor Irene Priest (NZ European), who was strapped into a special chair at the Kimberley Centre near Taitoko Levin, so she could be force-fed.[1251]

856. The Inquiry has also been told of hospital staff reacting to emergency situations by using physical restraints, resulting in physical injury. For example, a patient at the Lake Alice National Security Unit in Manawatū had his arm broken in 1993 when he was physically restrained by three staff members.[1252] Another patient at Wakari Hospital in Otepoti Dunedin suffered a fracture to his arm in 1995 after being restrained.[1253]

He taikaha te tūkinotanga ā-tinana, ā i ōna wā, ko te mate te hua
Physical abuse could be severe, even fatal

857. Many survivors said they were physically abused by other patients or residents at institutions and that staff did not intervene or respond appropriately. Survivors described being bullied, punched, bitten, stabbed, hit with objects and thrown downstairs by their peers.[1254]

858. Survivors were often injured from peer abuse, sometimes severely, and from some accounts, so severe it resulted in death.[1255] The Inquiry was told about a head injury that needed ambulance attention, fractured bones, a resident who became blind after being kicked in the head and several times where injuries caused death.[1256] In 1952, a patient at Ngawhatu Psychiatric Hospital in Whakatū Nelson murdered another patient using a pipe covered in newspaper.[1257] On a further occasion in the 1970s, a resident at the Templeton Centre near Ōtautahi Christchurch died after having a broomstick inserted into his anus by another resident.[1258]

Te tūkinotanga ā-pūtea i ngā whare Kāwanatanga nui
Financial abuse in large-scale institutions

859. Financial abuse was another way that autonomy and personhood were removed from individuals in large-scale institutional care settings, and in more community-based settings. Survivors and their family and whānau experienced different forms of financial abuse, including the removal or even theft of personal possessions and money.[1259] Gifts received from family, such as for birthdays, would often go ‘missing’ in institutional care settings.[1260] Financial abuse reinforced economic disadvantage for disabled people.

860. Unpaid labour while living in large-scale institutions represented another form of financial abuse.[1261] NZ European survivor Mr EI shared that he was taken out of school at the Kimberley Centre near Taitoko Levin, to help make boxes and coat hangers. He was paid about $5 a week.[1262]

861. Margaret, whose sister Irene Priest (NZ European) was in care, suspected that some staff members at the Kimberley Centre were stealing from residents:

“I understand that each resident at Kimberley would have a fund, which included money given by the resident's family or from the state, and this fund would be used to buy necessary personal items for the resident. I was told by my parents that they would receive statements of account, which would show 24 t-shirts were bought for Irene or a very expensive jacket, but we would never see these items.”[1263]

Te tūkinotanga i ngā kāinga rōpū me ngā taurima hāpori anō hoki
Abuse in group homes and community care

862. This section considers the specific nature of abuse and neglect experienced in settings such as smaller group residential homes and hostels, community-based care and support services, such as outpatient or day services.

863. Most evidence the Inquiry received that relates to these types of settings falls outside of the Inquiry period, after 1999. The evidence received that is relevant to 1950–1999 generally depicts experiences in smaller group residential homes.

864. The same disablism and active devaluation of disability, difference and diversity that existed in large-scale psychiatric and psychopaedic institutions extended into these settings. These places also operated on the basis of control through disempowerment and fear, and consequently, the abuse and neglect experienced was similar.

Te whakahapa ā-kare-ā-roto, ā-hinengaro, ā-whanaketanga anō hoki
Emotional, psychological and developmental neglect

865. IHC homes or hostels have been part of the disability care context throughout the Inquiry period. While these looked physically different to the large-scale settings, such as psychopaedic hospitals, and had far fewer residents, they have been described as “mini institutions” where people were still stripped of individuality and denied autonomy in many areas of their lives.[1264] Survivor Miss VK highlighted this point when she explained that residents “all wore the same clothes and had the same bowl haircut”.[1265] Allison Campbell, a former staff member at an IHC residence recalled the same.[1266]

866. The Inquiry was also told that staff in community-based group homes neglected residents’ emotional needs by being overly paternalistic. Adults living in these settings were treated like children, “not to be seen or heard but told what to do”.[1267] Staff sometimes required people who lived there to call them Mum and Dad.[1268] Some survivors deeply resented this, while others reflected positively on living in residential group homes,[1269] describing them as “normal houses, with a mum and a dad running the home and looking after me”.[1270]

867. In a community-based hostel for people receiving mental health support, survivor Ms LS described the environment as “dull and boring, with nothing going on, except for chores that we had to do. You might as well have just slept.”[1271]

Te noho wehe i te whānau me ngā hoa
Separation from family, whānau and friends

868. Survivors described the mental and emotional anguish caused by not being able to see or communicate with family, whānau and friends. Survivors who were placed in care at a younger age often mentioned feeling homesick. Matthew Whiting, a survivor placed in an IHC family home at 7 years old, believed he was “too much hard work” for his father and so he was removed from home, although he did not have a learning disability. He described his experiences and how deeply they have affected him:

“I was taken care of and [she] was nice to me but I hated it because it wasn’t home. On the weekends I got to go home and see Dad and my siblings. I really wanted to stay there. When I talk about being taken away from my home at only 7 years old, I feel very upset. It really affected me and still does today. I was just a kid wanted to be at home.”[1272]

Te whakahapa nā te kore tuku kōwhiringa, mana whakahaere hoki mō te taha ki te hauora īkura
Neglect of choice and autonomy surrounding menstrual health

869. Much like large-scale institutional settings, survivors in group homes were also denied their reproductive rights and suffered medical abuse. Allison Campbell, a staff member who worked at IHC from 1980 until the early 2000s, instigated a process of explaining Depo-Provera treatment to the 30 women and girls who were receiving it.[1273] After her discussions, the majority of recipients elected to stop receiving the treatment. She faced significant criticism by IHC teachers from the nearby special school that some of these female residents attended. The teachers were unhappy with having to handle residents' periods. They suggested Allison clean up the mess instead of teaching the girls how to manage their own periods. Allison describes their response as indicative of an approach towards disabled people that conceptualises them as “incapable of understanding or coping with [a] very normal part of life”.[1274]

Te whakahapa nā te kore manaaki tonu
Neglect of need for continuity of care

870. In closed settings, group homes and community-based care, people were more likely to experience placement shifts, which could neglect the need for a sense of continuity of care.

871. Survivors experienced being shifted out of large-scale institutions and then into and between different group residential homes and hostels. In addition, there was often turnover of staff and other residents in these homes or hostels that meant survivors were powerless as to who would care for them and who they would be living with. This all contributed to feelings of instability and represented a form of emotional neglect.

Te whakahapa ā-hauora
Medical neglect

872. Survivor Matthew Whiting, who has physical disabilities and lived at a Crippled Children Society family home in the late 1970s, shared his experience of medical neglect. When he was about 10 years old, he got pneumonia and became very unwell:

“The couple thought I just had a cold and that I was getting better. They didn’t recognise the seriousness of the illness, and I got worse. When they finally took me to a doctor, he said if I hadn’t gone in that day I potentially could have died. I was off school and recuperating in bed for eight weeks.”[1275]

873. In 1999, IHC conducted a review into the health needs and related medication of people who had transitioned from institutions into community residential homes, as it was apparent this had not been assessed for many years.[1276]

“The data showed that 73 percent of people required significant health interventions, ranging from cataract operations to cancer screens, dental work, pain management and more.”[1277]

Te tūkinotanga ā-hinengaro, inarā te whakaweti
Psychological abuse, particularly bullying

874. Survivors and former staff have said that bullying occurred in group residential homes, often through threats and verbal abuse. Sometimes staff used bullying and threats to exert control over residents.

875. Mr RL, who had previously worked at IHC as a community services manager, said he was aware of staff bullying residents by threatening to withhold food.[1278] Mr RL recalled one instance of bullying – where a blind resident who could copy voices word for word, mimicked a threat that a staff member had made towards him, and that staff member resigned.[1279]

Te taitōkaitanga
Sexual abuse

876. The Inquiry heard how survivors experienced sexual abuse by staff in group residential homes. Ms LO had a daughter with an intellectual disability and autistic spectrum disorder who was sexually abused in an IHC family home.[1280] She told the Inquiry the sexual abuse by a staff member occurred when her daughter was approximately 7 to 10 years old, and that her daughter did not disclose the abuse to her for more than a decade.[1281] There are many barriers to disclosure that exist for disabled people, both at the time of the abuse and afterwards.

Te tūkinotanga ā-tinana
Physical abuse

877. For placement into smaller group residential homes, residents often had no choice about where they were going and who they would be living with. The Inquiry heard that placement was not determined by compatibility with other residents.[1282] The Inquiry has heard of survivors being bullied and “regularly physically assaulted” by other people living in their home,[1283] and that people did not have the ability to leave and live elsewhere, “even when living in the midst of domestic violence”.[1284]

878. Former IHC manager, Mr RL, said that through disclosure from staff and residents, he was aware of incidents where staff hit residents.[1285]

879. Sometimes it seems that staff also used physical punishment as a form of entertainment. Allison Campbell, who worked as a social worker for IHC from 1980 until the early 2000s, said that in the earlier years staff would “antagonise and tease people then punish them when they retaliated”.[1286]

Te tūkinotanga ā-pūtea
Financial abuse

880. As in other settings for disability care, disabled people within closed settings were employed in sheltered workshops that were legally exempt from having to meet labour legislation covering pay and other conditions.[1287]

881. Survivor Miss VK, who resided at an IHC home, said she did not go to school while she was there and worked instead, doing things such as woodwork and sewing. She told the Inquiry: “We were paid $5 a fortnight, but this money was put into a bank account and we weren't allowed to touch it. We could only drink at morning tea and lunchtime, and were not given holidays or sick leave.”[1288]

882. Claire Ryan, who has worked in the disability sector for more than 30 years, reflected on financial abuse she observed as an IHC support and development worker at Rongo Home where the majority of residents had learning disabilities:

“All residents would leave in a van in the morning and go to work in a big, cold warehouse/workshop on Ferry Road in Christchurch. There was about 250 people working from different care settings in the warehouse. This occupational activity was kind of meaningless activity.

People would earn a minimal wage under ten dollars a week. It was considered okay to pay disabled people such a low salary; the common view was that disabled people do not earn money … The staff then used this money for excursions and if people wanted their money then they had to ask for it.”[1289]

883. The Inquiry was also told that financial abuse occurred in smaller group residential home through staff members stealing residents’ allowances for their own personal spending.[1290]

Te tūkinotanga i roto i ngā kura me ngā akomanga mā ngā tamariki me ngā rangatahi Turi
Abuse in schools and units for Deaf children and young people

884. This section and the following section focus on survivors’ experiences in special school settings. This includes special units within mainstream schools, which were often satellites of separate special schools.

885. Most, if not all, of the evidence that the Inquiry has from Deaf and tāngata Turi Māori survivors relates to experiences in these education settings around the 1960s to 1980s. While the nature of abuse in schools for Deaf and tāngata Turi Māori children and young people could be the same as in other care and educational settings, there was a distinct element to abuse perpetrated in these settings that often directly targeted things that were fundamental to Deaf and tāngata Turi Māori students, such as Sign Language and Deaf culture.

886. Survivors’ experiences of abuse and neglect in Van Asch College and Kelston School for the Deaf are discussed in more detail in the Inquiry’s case study, Our Hands Were Tied.

Te whakahapa ā-kare-ā-roto, ā-hinengaro, ā-whanaketanga hoki
Emotional, psychological and developmental neglect

887. The basic human need to be recognised and celebrated as an individual was neglected within education settings for Deaf and tangata Turi Māori children and young people.

888. Tangata Turi Māori survivor Whiti Ronaki, who was a student at Kelston Deaf School in Tāmaki Makaurau Auckland from 1959, said they did not have birthday celebrations at Kelston.[1291] Another survivor, Ms MK, confirmed this was also the case at Van Asch:

“We didn’t celebrate birthdays or holidays at Van Asch. We didn’t get Easter eggs, Christmas presents, or birthday presents. We didn’t have special things of our own, like toys or pictures of our families.”[1292]

889. People were not allowed to choose their own hair style. Jarrod Burrell, a NZ European and Deaf survivor who attended St Dominic’s School for the Deaf in Aorangi Feilding, said he had all his hair cut off by a nun at the school without his permission.[1293]

Te whakahapa ā-mātauranga i ngā kura Turi
Educational neglect in Deaf schools

890. Deaf survivors felt teaching staff sometimes held very limited views of Deaf students’ abilities to learn.[1294] Ms Bielski, a Kiwi, Deaf survivor who was in a Deaf class at Sumner Primary in Ōtautahi Christchurch in the 1980s explained: “There were only seven of us in my Deaf class, but the first teacher I had there did not put any effort into our education. We spent a lot of time just mucking around and playing games.”[1295]

891. Jarrod Burrell, who went to St Dominic’s School for the Deaf in Aorangi Feilding, shared that his education was focused on speech therapy and oralism, rather than academic areas.[1296] When St Dominic’s was shut down, Jarrod went to a Deaf wing of St Joseph’s School in Feilding where classes were more integrated with hearing students. He said: “At St Joseph’s it felt impossible for us Deaf kids to catch up with our hearing peers, because we were so far behind academically. I really enjoyed the new learning opportunities, but I wished I’d been able access this curriculum earlier.”[1297]

Te tūkinotanga ā-ahurea me te whakahapa, waihoki te kaikiritanga i ngā kura Turi
Cultural abuse and neglect, including racism in Deaf schools

892. Deaf survivors have told the Inquiry that Deaf culture was neglected and actively discouraged in special school settings. It is important to acknowledge that a fundamental element of Deaf culture is the use of Sign Language. Mr JS, a Deaf survivor who attended various mainstream and Deaf schools from the late 1960s to the early 1980s, explained the role Sign Language played in developing a personal sense of identity:

“As I accessed language and Deaf culture, I started to gain a sense of Deaf identity. I remember having this moment where I realised that I'm Deaf, I'm not stupid. I had grown up with everyone assuming and telling me that I was stupid. I just needed language and to be around kids like me.”[1298]

893. There is strong and consistent evidence from Deaf survivors, who were students from the 1950s to the 1980s, that the use of Sign Language was discouraged, including through physical punishment. Family and whānau were also encouraged not to sign when Deaf children and young people would return home over school holidays, which affected communication and represented a way that institutions further broke down familial connection.[1299]

894. This cultural abuse and neglect was based on audism’ Audism contributed to educational neglect and emotional and psychological abuse and affected Deaf people's experiences of other forms of abuse, including physical and sexual abuse. It inhibited Deaf survivors’ ability to both understand and report abuse that happened to them in these settings.

895. Tāngata Turi Māori survivor Milton Reedy (Ngāti Porou) was a student in Kelston in the 1960s and 1970s where he experienced corporal punishment for signing. He said that the “reasoning for that [punishment] was that if you want to get on in a hearing world, you need to learn how to speak, not use gestures and signs”.[1300] However, oralism failed to uphold Deaf cultural values and oppressed Deaf identity and language.

896. Total Communication was introduced in the 1980s and sought to mirror English language, syntax, and grammar, by combining “communication modes like lipreading, oralism, finger spelling and some signing”.[1301] Total Communication was lobbied for by many in the Deaf community in the early 1980s, particularly the group, Manual Oral and Aural Communication.

897. Some survivors felt that Total Communication reinforced an audist mindset of English / hearing superiority. Deaf students continued to be discouraged from choosing to communicate in a way that was culturally appropriate for them, perpetuating systemic denial of access to a uniquely Deaf worldview.

898. Mr JS, who attended mainstream and Deaf schools from the late 1960s to the 1980s, said he was about 15 years old when the school he was at introduced Total Communication. He told the Inquiry that his teachers did not make an effort to explain the concepts of the English language they were signing. This meant it didn’t make any sense to him or other Deaf students. He hated it because the sentence structure, which required a different sign for each word, was completely different to the sign language they had “naturally learnt and developed”[1302] themselves. He said:

“I became fed up with the teachers using TC. It was so confusing and mechanical looking — it just felt unnatural. You get bored before the end of the sentence. I told the teachers that I was going to sign my own way. I realise now that our signing was actually pure NZSL.”[1303]

899. Survivors felt that Deaf culture and language was suppressed over the years through these educational policies by enforcing an English and hearing worldview onto Deaf people.

900. Teaching staff could perpetuate this cultural abuse and neglect through lack of understanding and knowledge of Deaf culture. Deaf survivors explained that in some Deaf education settings they experienced linguistic and cultural neglect because there were no Deaf teachers or hearing staff with adequate understanding of either Sign Language or Deaf culture.[1304] Consequently, they were not taught about Deaf culture which negatively affected their sense of identity and confidence.

901. Deaf survivor Ms Bielski, who was a student at Sumner Institute for the Deaf and Dumb (renamed Van Asch College) in Ōtautahi Christchurch in the 1980s, told the Inquiry she was ridiculed by her teacher for her facial expressions while signing, despite facial expression being a crucial part of communication when using Sign Language and therefore Deaf culture:

“The cultural neglect and abuse is what really got to me... When I was 11 years old, my teacher mocked me for what my face looked like when I signed. I do not want to disparage her, overall she was a great teacher. However, facial expressions are a part of NZSL. My face is an important part of my Sign Language. This incident demonstrated her lack of awareness of Deaf etiquette and Deaf culture. The teacher called me over and said, ‘Come and stand in front of the mirror. Look at your face’. I was so confused. I did not know what she meant. She said, ‘Look at it. That is ugly. You need to have a smooth face’. She just wanted me to look like a hearing person. This teacher never said this again, but other teachers would make those sorts of comments all the time.”[1305]

902. Other Deaf survivor accounts confirmed this was a common experience for Deaf students. Oralism and later Total Communication robbed them of the ability to communicate in a chosen way unique to Deaf culture.

903. The Inquiry has heard that from the 1950s to the 1980s, staff tied Deaf students’ hands to prevent them signing and used straps to inflict corporal punishment.[1306] Deaf Survivor Ms Bielski stated:

“When I first started at Van Asch, we were told off for using Sign Language. The teachers banned it in class. However, in the boarding zone of Van Asch we could sign more freely because there were no teachers around to tell us off. It was only on the proper school grounds that we would be punished for signing when caught doing so. I remember other students were strapped for signing, but this never happened to me.

I had not been at Van Asch for long when my teacher tied my hands to my chair to stop me from talking. I was five or six years old at the time. I think my teacher was getting sick of me for talking too much in class and answering too many questions. Because my hands were such a big part of how I communicated, my teacher stopped me from talking by putting my hands behind my back and tying them to my chair. I still kept creating a fuss until the teacher took the restraints off me.”[1307]

904. Ms MK, a Deaf survivor who attended Sumner Institute for the Deaf and Dumb (renamed Van Asch College) in Ōtautahi Christchurch in the late 1960s and early 1970s, discussed how Deaf children had to develop their culture and language covertly:

“When staff weren't looking we used to sign our own language. Not taught by teachers or other people, but taught by kids. We developed our own way of communicating and learnt about our own culture.”[1308]

905. Other Deaf survivors also described their use of Sign Language as being developed ‘underground’.

He maha ngā kino i wheakotia e ngā tāngata Turi Māori i ngā kura Turi
Tāngata Turi Māori had compounding experiences in Deaf schools

906. Tāngata Turi Māori are a distinct cultural group within both te ao Māori and Deaf culture. Tāngata Turi Māori not only suffered the same types of abuse as other Deaf survivors but also experienced overlapping and compounding forms of abuse and neglect in special education settings, particularly cultural neglect and racial discrimination.

907. A Deaf Pākehā survivor Mr JS, who attended Sumner Institute for the Deaf and Dumb in the 1970s and 1980s, told the Inquiry he thought the school principal was racist towards Māori students.[1309] He said “he always targeted them. It was clear to me that he hated the Māori students.”[1310] He recalls that the tāngata Turi Māori students who knew the principal from previous schooling “all hated him.”[1311]

908. Some tāngata Turi Māori survivors who attended Sumner Institute for the Deaf and Dumb in the 1970s said they experienced and witnessed racism. One of them shared that:

“The Māori students also suffered a lot of racism, not just from the teachers but also the Pākehā students who would treat us badly, tell us off, wag their fingers at us and boss us around. There are a lot of tāngata Turi with memories of this.

The Māori students were punished more often compared to the Pākehā students. Even if a Pākehā student got something’ wrong the teachers would be more patient with them, but if a Māori student tried to explain why they couldn't do it, it just seemed like an excuse, and they would get punished anyway.”[1312]

909. Tāngata Turi Māori also told the Inquiry that there were few or no Māori teachers at residential Deaf schools, which added to feelings of isolation, disconnection and loneliness.[1313] Tāngata Turi Māori survivors said that at Kelston School for the Deaf, Tāmaki Makaurau Auckland there was no access to te reo Māori or tikanga Māori.[1314]

910. Similarly, cultural neglect was experienced at St Dominic’s School for the Deaf in Aorangi Feilding and Sumner School in Ōtautahi Christchurch, with one survivor, Mr JU, saying: “My schooling did not give me any access to te ao Māori at St Dominic's or Sumner School. No access to Māori culture, no access to kapa haka or marae or te reo Māori. We were removed from our whānau and from our culture.”[1315]

911. The Inquiry has received two collective statements from whānau Turi based in Tāmaki Makaurau and Ōtautahi (tāngata Turi Māori and their whānau and support people from Tāmaki Makaurau Auckland and Ōtautahi Christchurch). The statements note that tāngata Turi Māori were not only barred from signing while in Deaf schools, but that there was no access to te reo Māori.

912. One of the statements explained: “We were denied access to both of our indigenous languages.”[1316] Further, because whānau were not supported to learn methods of communication such as NZSL, communication was extremely difficult when tamariki returned home from residential schools, creating further barriers between tāngata Turi Māori and their whānau.[1317]

913. Many tāngata Turi Māori who attended residential Deaf schools grew up without access to, or an understanding of their Māori identities, yet faced multiple layers of discrimination being both Māori and Deaf:

“I think about myself as a Deaf person. I think about my whānau as Māori. I have two identities – Deaf and Māori. We face multiple barriers and I have [faced all of these barriers] as an individual.”[1318]

Te tūkinotanga ā-hinengaro i ngā kura Turi
Psychological abuse in Deaf schools

I whakatumatumahia e ngā kaimahi kura me ngā ākonga taringa rahirahi
Bullying from school staff and hearing students

914. Survivor Cameron Hore, who attended Van Asch during the late 1990s, described bullying as the ‘culture’ of the school.[1319] Deaf survivors described teachers who stood out to them because of their bullying behaviour. Deaf survivor Mr EV, who attended Kelston, recalled how many Deaf students were abused and bullied by the same (now former) teacher who had an extensive teaching history before he retired. Along with physical violence, Deaf students faced belittling behaviour, intimidation and bouts of anger and rage at the hands of this teacher:

“[The teacher] always used to have such a bad attitude. He was a know it all. He thought we were all dumb and he made us feel that we could never answer his questions correctly. If we got an answer wrong, he would yell at us ‘You’re wrong’ He would go around all of the students, ‘You’re wrong! You’re wrong! You’re wrong!’”[1320]

915. Māori Deaf survivor, Mr LF (Ngāti Maniopoto), who went to Kelston in the 1970s and 1980s, said he had suffered too many instances of emotional abuse to remember at the hands of one specific (now former) teacher.[1321]

916. Ms Bielski, said she had never experienced bullying by peers at Van Asch, but that she, and all other Deaf students in her class were bullied by hearing students when they were transferred to a Deaf unit within a mainstream primary school.[1322]

Te kitenga o te taikaha i ngā kura Turi
Witnessing violence in Deaf schools

917. Witnessing violence, both directly or indirectly, can be understood as another form of psychological and emotional abuse. Witnessing the abuse of others causes vicarious trauma for the witnesses.[1323]

918. Many survivors felt distressed and upset witnessing their peers being abused and suffering harm. Māori survivor Mr LF (Ngāti Maniopoto) shared:

“While I was at Kelston, I suffered numerous instances of physical and emotional abuse at the hands of that teacher. There are too many instances to remember, but [one] that stick[s] out to me [is] [h]aving to witness the teacher break the arm of another friend of mine. This was very upsetting to me and distressing.”[1324]

919. NZ European survivor Mr LQ explained that he and his peers experienced physical abuse and psychological and emotional abuse in the form of verbal abuse and bullying at the hands of a teacher at Glen Eden Primary School in Tāmaki Makaurau Auckland, and recalled a particular Deaf peer being picked on worse than everyone else in the class.[1325] Mr LQ said that one day the bullying towards this peer was so bad that he yelled at the teacher who proceeded to physically abuse him.[1326]

920. Pākehā survivor Mr EV was taught by this same abusive teacher and also recalled him picking on one peer in particular.[1327] Mr EV subsequently found out that this peer died over the school holidays and the class wondered whether they had taken their own life.[1328]

Te tūkinotanga ā-tinana me te whakahapa i ngā kura Turi
Physical abuse and neglect in Deaf schools

921. The Inquiry heard of Deaf survivors experiencing physical abuse from staff within these settings. Discriminatory attitudes particularly among staff, such as audism, further influenced the nature of abuse suffered by survivors. Deaf survivors were frequently punished and abused for using Sign Language. Deaf survivors described being punched, slapped, kicked, grabbed by the face or neck, strapped and having their hands tied by staff if they were caught signing.[1329]

922. The Inquiry was told that injuries sustained from physical abuse were left untreated. Ms Bielski, a Kiwi, Deaf survivor who attended Van Asch from 1979 to 1984, shared an incident that occurred when she was 5 or 6 years old.[1330] A relief teacher slapped her hard on the side of the head when she was wearing an ear mould. She said that she was given a damp cloth and left on a bench in the storeroom. The canal length of the ear mould was cracked and broken, she said she believed it had broken off into her ear. Despite this, nobody sought to look for it and she did not get taken to see a doctor. She described her ear bleeding for the rest of the week.[1331]

Te taitōkai i ngā kura Turi
Sexual abuse in Deaf schools

923. The Inquiry has heard from Deaf survivors, and a former staff member, that sexual abuse occurred at Deaf schools[1332] and that a pattern existed of staff having sexual relationships with children or young adults in their care.[1333] Not only did survivors describe being sexually abused by staff members, but some experienced sexual abuse from other students who were often older. Survivor Ms JR, who was sexually abused by another student at Van Asch in 1984, said:

“I was using one of the only Sign Language signs I knew, the sign for ‘no’. I was yelling and screaming at the top of my voice. There were two houses on either side, but somehow no one heard me. Lots of children were still watching the movie and lots were profoundly Deaf.”[1334]

Te tūkinotanga i roto i ngā kura me ngā akomanga motuhake, tae noa atu ki ngā tamariki me ngā rangatahi kāpō
Abuse in special schools and units, including for blind children and young people

924. In these educational settings, the nature of abuse was often tied to individuals’ conditions or impairments.

I whakaparautia te motuhaketanga ā-tanga me te mana o ngā purapura ora
Survivors were denied their personhood and mana

925. Celtic European and blind survivor Kylee Maloney explained that her and her peers’ emotional development was largely neglected at Homai School, and this has continued to significantly impact her life:

“We had plenty of physical and intellectual preparation (I would never have learned to do the ordinary things such as cooking and fending for myself else) but we're made up of emotional, mental and spiritual parts too, and those were largely ignored. I already had relationship issues when I arrived and Homai exacerbated them. I am now sitting here, avoiding society unless it is on my terms. It has coloured everything I am and everything I do.”[1335]

926. The Inquiry was told by blind survivors that there was active suppression and devaluation of ‘blindisms’ and blind identity in education settings. NZ European and blind survivor Jonathan Mosen explained: “Some things that congenitally blind people do are nicknamed blindisms. For example, rocking, eye poking, and spinning. I think people do these things because it’s a form of stimulation that your eyesight is not giving you.”[1336]

927. Blind survivors primarily discussed experiences of abuse and neglect at Homai. Jonathan described being disciplined by staff at Homai for his use of echolocation[1337] to navigate the world. He believed the teachers’ knowledge of blindness and blindism came solely from books and their personal observations, and so the rationale for discouraging behaviour such as echolocation was made under the false and ableist belief that sighted people would think it was ’weird’.[1338] This was neglect of blind culture and a disregard of diverse needs; overall it demonstrated a rejection of blind identity.

928. The Inquiry also heard of a very regimented environment at Homai with many bells and strict daily routines. European survivor Paula Waby shared that she felt a “total loss of power.”[1339] She said:

“We were forced into independence, but it was a brutal way of doing it. They were just focused on getting you dressed, fed, following the routine, and not a lot else.”[1340]

929. In the context of this impersonal, regimented environment at Homai, survivor Kylee Maloney was quickly told by staff that her long hair needed to be cut “as nobody had time to do this [tie their hair up] every day”.[1341]

Te whakawehenga i te whānau, ngā hoa me te hāpori whānui
Separation from family, whānau and friends, and the wider community

930. Survivors experienced pain and frustration at being separated from their family and friends. Survivors had little say on when and how often they could see their family and there was a lack of transparency from staff as to why they could not visit more.[1342]

931. Survivors said that they had little to no exposure to general social and cultural experiences, including knowledge of current events and popular culture enjoyed by others their age. This disconnection could have been felt even more acutely by people who were in segregated settings and often dehumanised and treated as ‘less than’ from an early age.

932. Survivor Kylee Maloney, who was at Homai felt disconnected to the community and life beyond the institution:

“At the hostel, we were not exposed to the culture of being a kid in New Zealand in the 1970s and 1980s. I did not get to watch children's TV shows or sports or games unless I was home for the holidays. We didn't socialise with sighted kids. The only information we received from other sighted kids was either when someone new came to Homai from outside, or when we interacted with siblings and neighbours' kids during the holidays.”[1343]

Te whakahapa ā-mātauranga i ngā kura Turi
Educational neglect in Deaf schools

933. Low expectations also negatively impacted on disabled people’s education. Lusi Faiva, a Samoan survivor, attended a school for students with cerebral palsy. She recounted that the school “didn’t really teach us though because the school was focused on recreation and rehabilitation”.[1344] Inadequate support in the classroom with either school work or accessibility needs could also mean that disabled survivors’ opportunities to learn were diminished.[1345]

934. Jonathan Mosen explained that the concept of ‘sight savers’ meant educational neglect for some low-vision children at Homai. This was the idea that if you did not use your sight then you would lose it so there was a focus on reading in the ‘normal’ way with large prints and magnification. Low-vision children therefore lost the opportunity to learn Braille and, when their vision deteriorated as adults, they lost their functional literacy.[1346]

Te whakataratahitanga hei aupēhinga whanonga i ngā kura motuhake
Solitary confinement to control behaviour in special schools

935. Antony Dalton-Wilson, a Samoan mixed-ethnicity survivor with a brain injury, had further experiences of solitary confinement at Mount Wellington Residential School (later known as Bucklands Beach Residential School or Waimokoia Residential School) in Tāmaki Makaurau Auckland, where he recalled being put in time out rooms nearly every day.[1347] He said the rooms were scary, dark and there was one where he could hardly breathe because it had no windows.[1348] Antony said the rooms often did not come with a toilet, which meant he had to go on the floor. His time in secure could last from one night to, in one instance, the whole weekend.[1349]

936. Like other survivors, Antony was sometimes placed in solitary confinement or ‘time-out’ for trivial matters, or for things that were beyond his control. He was put there for breaking a dinner plate, and for wetting the bed. He wet the bed due to the amount of medication he was being given. There were also instances where he did not know why he was put in time out. He remembered a teacher who tried to intervene, and she was pulled by her collar and told to be quiet otherwise she would be put in time out too.[1350]

937. Mrs NS shared that in 1992, she found out that her daughter, a disabled survivor, had been locked in a purpose-built cupboard at a satellite classroom of Wairau Valley Special School in Tāmaki Makaurau Auckland up to “21 times before morning tea”.[1351]

938. The Inquiry heard that, regardless of circumstances where staff believed putting an individual in solitary confinement or time out may have been helpful or justified at the time, by its very nature, this action could have a harmful effect on individuals. This was reflected in the Ministry of Health’s acknowledgement that there is no evidence that solitary confinement is ever therapeutic.

Te tūkinotanga ā-hinengaro i ngā kura motuhake
Psychological abuse in special schools

I whakatumatuma ngā kaimahi i ngā ākonga i ngā kura motuhake
Staff bullied students in special schools

939. Antony Dalton-Wilson, told the Inquiry about numerous incidents of bullying occurring at a residential school:

“One of things that I really remember is that the teachers at the school were very mean. Lots of them would call me ‘bungeye’ ... and some would put their cigarette butts out on me. It would burn me. It happened more than once but I do not know why. It was not just one teacher either, it was a few of the teachers. They would bully me.”[1352]

940. He felt that the teachers at this school liked to harass him, saying “They would call me names, laugh at me and do the fingers to me.”[1353] Staff did not try to stop other students at the school also bullying him.[1354] Antony was laughed at by both teachers and students when he struggled to participate in physical education classes because of his disability.[1355]

941. At another residential school, NZ European survivor Mr PK also experienced bullying at the hands of staff, saying “I was screamed at and yelled at by staff and called names on a regular basis. I specifically remember a few staff members would call me ‘tard head’.”[1356]

942. Blind survivor Kylee Maloney who attended Homai residential school recalled staff calling her names and emotionally bullying her.[1357] The Inquiry was told of Homai staff inflicting psychological harm on residents through actions that disregarded children’s fears, including shutting a child who was terrified of dogs in a cage with one, throwing children who were scared of water in the pool who and chasing a child who was scared of vacuum cleaners with one.[1358]

Te kite i te taitōkai me te taikaha
Witnessing rape and violence

943. European Māori survivor Mr NV (Ngāpuhi), who has an intellectual disability, described regularly witnessing other boys being physically and sexually abused by staff members. He recalled witnessing his friend kill himself at Campbell Park School. His friend had been sexually abused.[1359]

Te taitōkai me te tūkinotanga ā-tinana i ngā kura motuhake
Sexual and physical abuse in special schools

944. The Inquiry heard that disabled survivors were sexually abused by staff members and sometimes peers in special schools.[1360]

945. Survivor Mr NV described being sexually abused by two different staff members and by other boys at Campbell Park School in the 1980s.[1361] He was masturbated in the shower, raped in the dormitory, and forced to perform oral sex. This happened repeatedly and involved the same staff member on each occasion.[1362] The same occurred on later dates with a different staff member. Mr NV also heard other boys screaming at night while they were being sexually abused.[1363]

946. Sometimes physical assaults were part of joining an institution. Sir Robert Martin said that when he was sent to Campbell Park School at 11 years old he was assaulted by the other boys as part of an initiation process.[1364]

947. Antony Dalton-Wilson (Samoan, Gypsy) explained the medication he was on while at Mount Wellington Residential School made him wet the bed. One day, he was last to class because he had to take his wet bedsheets to the laundry to be washed. As punishment for his tardiness, he was sent to the headmaster’s office and experienced physical abuse: “[The headmaster] pulled down my pants and hit me with his belt buckle on my legs. He did this at least three times.”[1365]

948. Like other survivors in special schools who were physically abused by staff for minor infractions, Antony also told the Inquiry of several instances where he experienced physical abuse at the hand of this headmaster for trivial reasons, or because he was struggling to complete work without adequate support, demonstrating a disregard for diverse needs.[1366] Antony described a situation where he tried to set a table:

"I remember one day I had to set the table, but I did not do it correctly. It was hard for me to remember the order that the teachers wanted the plates and knives. It was also hard for me to see where I was putting the things on the table. When I did it wrong, [the headmaster] pulled down my pants and hit my legs with his belt buckle. He hit me about three times again. I cried. I just do not understand why [the headmaster] would hit me so much because I was not being naughty."[1367]

Read the next part of Chapter 4 here

 

Footnotes